


This Nest of Sparrows 2 - The Fifth Race

by stargatefan_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-15
Updated: 2005-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-07 03:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10350912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargatefan_archivist/pseuds/stargatefan_archivist
Summary: SPOILERS: "The Fifth Race"SUMMARY: The continuing saga of Millie Guthro and the World According to Jack.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Yuma, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Stargatefan.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Stargatefan.com). To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [StargateFan Archive Collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StargateFan_Archive_Collection).

  
Stargate SG-1 FanFiction - This Nest of Sparrows - The Fifth Race

_I watch, and am become like a sparrow that is alone upon the house-top._ Psalms 102:7  
The best measure of a man's honesty isn't his income tax return.  
It's the zero adjust on his bathroom scale. Arthur C. Clarke

*****

Millie Guthro cursed at the ringing of the telephone and rolled off the sofa with a groan. Dammit! Who in the hell had the audacity to call her at 8:42 a.m. on her day off? If he knew what was good for him, it wouldn't be a salesman.

"What?" Okay, so she sounded pissed. There was a reason for that: she was.

"Millie, you're good at lying, right?"

What the hell? Her anger was immediately forgotten. Daniel? It sounded like Daniel, Jack's co-worker.

"Who's calling?"

"Oh. I'm sorry. It's me, Daniel. Daniel Jackson. Jack's friend."

Millie couldn't help herself. "One moment, please." She pulled the phone away from her ear and covered the mouthpiece with her hand. "Millie, it's for you! Some guy named Daniel." She paused, counting to five. "He says he's Jack's friend." While counting to ten, she glanced across the room at the 19-inch television perched on a second-hand chest. John Boy Walton, the aspiring author, was sitting in front of an open window, scribbling with a fat pencil in an Indian Chief tablet. Fiction: proper lies in organized form. So, she was no worse than John Boy. Millie uncovered the phone and put the receiver back up to her ear, panting slightly. "Daniel?"

"Millie? I'm sorry. Geesh. Please apologize to your friend for me. I thought it was you. You sound alike."

"Yeah, we get that a lot. What's going on?"

"You're good at lying, right?"

Obviously. "Lying?"

"Yeah. We need . . . see, Jack's a bit under the weather."

Frowning, Millie hit a button on the remote and John Boy winked into non-existence. "Is he hurt again or something?"

"Yes. No. Well, I can't . . . it's a long story. Suffice to say, he's not feeling too well."

Suffice to say? "Can you be more specific?"

"No. Not really. But we need a favor."

"We?"

"Uh, me and Carter and Te-Murray."

Oh, well, that cleared it right up. "What kind of favor?"

"Jack insists on going home from the infirmary. Says he's fine and doesn't want any of us hanging around. I thought maybe you could . .."

"What? Kiss it and make it better?" Good grief! Did she really say that out loud? Millie blushed, picturing Jack tossing and turning on the bed in a fever-induced delirium as she struggled to plant one on him. Okay, time to drag out Old Faithful. Millie shut her eyes, concentrating on dredging up the not-so-fond memory of Jack's rotting-from-the-inside-out refrigerator. Nope. Didn't work. She had obviously become immune to its effects due to overuse; it no longer held the necessary shock value and visions of Jack continued to dance in her head.

"We thought maybe you could figure out a way to spend the day over at his house. You know, kind of keep an eye on him for us."

Keep an eye on Jack? She had to admit there were worse ways to spend her day off. The guy had a hell of a lot more going for him than John Boy Walton, that was for sure. "And the reason none of you can do it?"

"He says we're mother-hens. Besides, you have no idea how Jack can be when he's sick."

"And this is supposed to encourage me to say yes?" Daniel didn't respond. "Okay, so why do you suppose he'd let me hang around and not you guys?"

"Well, I'm not sure he will, but I don't think he'll be so bold as to actually throw you out. Us? Different story entirely. And I thought, what with the English accent thing, you could probably come up with a plausible reason to be there . . . other than to play nurse."

Millie chewed her lip, trying not to dwell on `playing nurse' with Jack, and glanced around her small apartment.

"If it's about your friend . . ."

"No. No, she was just getting ready to leave." Her hesitation was more about her `friend's' overwhelming desire to jump Jack's bones and the thought of being cooped up in a house alone with him for an entire day . . . especially if the man were vulnerable. Come on, Millie, show some restraint. It's for a good cause. "Well, okay, but I suppose you should give me a number where I can reach you in case he does kick me out, or fire me, or whatever."

She heard Daniel sigh in relief. "Thank you, Millie. We owe you one."

"Coffee. You owe me coffee. And not the cheap stuff. Something good."

*****

Millie propped her bicycle against the side of Jack's garage. No sign of his truck in the driveway. Sweating, her fingers trembling slightly, she slipped her key in the lock and opened the front door. Daniel had said Jack would be home around noon. It was 1:15 p.m. She'd tried to time it so her appearance would look unplanned . . . hopefully. She glanced down at her tshirt, cutoffs and sneakers. Unplanned. Right. Between the time she'd hung up from talking to Daniel to when she'd left her apartment, she'd changed four times .. . for a sick guy who was way out of her league, totally uninterested, and who would probably just kick her out anyway. God, she was pathetic. She really needed to get a life.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside the foyer. The house was cool and on the surface appeared to be unoccupied. Sunlight filtered in through the numerous windows, but all the lights were off and silence prevailed. She looked in the living room. Empty. She headed for the master bedroom. She'd check to see if he was sleeping; if so, then she'd slip outside and do a bit of yard work.

The bedroom door stood open. Her heart rapidly hammering against the back side of her rib cage, Millie peeked around the doorframe. The drapes had been drawn but the bathroom light cast a soft, artificial glow over the room. She felt a fine sheen of sweat break out on her upper lip as she stared at the room's sole occupant.

Jack lay sprawled on his stomach across the middle of the bed, arms and legs flung out. One hand and both feet dangled off the sides of the bed. His head was turned towards her. His eyes were closed, and she could see his torso expanding and contracting as he breathed in a deep, steady rhythm. The ceiling fan over the bed whirred softly and she watched, mesmerized, as a tuft of brownish-grey hair caught in the gentle stir of the air and danced over his high forehead.

Millie studied the long limbs and the lean, muscled back. Criminantly! Even the blonde peach-fuzz on the backs of his calves was cute. And to make matters worse - or better, depending on your viewpoint - the guy was tan all over. Well, she assumed all over. After all, he was wearing boxers. Boxers that looked like they had .. . she squinted. She couldn't tell for sure from this distance, and she didn't trust herself to step any closer, but she'd swear Jack had on Simpsons boxers.

Smothering a giggle, Millie turned and headed back down the hallway. Great. She'd never again hear the name `Homer' without picturing a certain tanned, fit, sexy Air Force officer wearing cartoon undies under his dress blues.

*****

"Shit!"

Millie stuck her thumb in her mouth, then spat out dirt and the Good Lord only knew what else. Her luck, Jack used manure on his flower beds. Spitting again for good measure, she studied the small drop of blood beading up on the pad of her thumb.

She really did hate roses. What was the point anyway? Why surround yourself with something just because it was beautiful, especially when you knew you were only going to get hurt by it in the end. As far as she was concerned, roses were no better than trophy wives. All looks and no substance. Floral trophy wives, complete with bees and thorns . . . two things not high on her list of favorite things in the world. Speaking of which, she ducked and swatted at a large bee.

Squatting down beside the fence row, Millie returned to her work. The mid-afternoon sun was hot and sweat dripped down her back, between her shoulder blades. She wiggled, trying to relieve the tickle. Losing her precarious balance, she toppled over onto her butt, dropping the small trowel and banging her elbow on a rock.

"Having fun?"

Startled, she turned to find Jack leaning back in a deck chair, sipping on a beer and watching her.

"What do you think?" Huffing softly, she sat up, then turned back around and pulled out a handful of weeds, tossing them over the fence and wondering how long he'd been sitting there staring at her backside.

"Need I ask how much this is going to cost me?"

She ignored him. At least he was dressed . . . albeit in khaki-colored cargo pants which, in her humble opinion, could give an orangutan a butt to die for. And thank God the tight black tshirt wasn't in attendance, having been traded in on a loose-fitting shirt.

"What are you doing here anyway?"

"What's it look like I'm doing here?" She tossed another weed over the fence.

"You know, you were more pleasant when you were British."

Hiding a grin, Millie glanced back at him. He held up a second, unopened beer in invitation. Sighing, wiping her sweaty forehead on the sleeve of her tshirt, Millie clambered to her feet and walked over to the deck. Taking the beer from him, she sat down on the top step and took a small swallow. She didn't care for Dos Equis, but at least it was cold.

"So . . . what are you doing here? Isn't it your day off?"

"Would you believe me if I said, a woman's work is never done?"

Jack snorted softly. "Oh, please." There was a slight pause, then, "Did Daniel send you?"

"Daniel?" Smiling, Millie looked at him. He was pale and despite the long nap, he looked exhausted. "Honestly, do I look like Daniel is the boss of me?"

He smiled and sipped his beer, his hand trembling slightly. "I don't think anyone is the boss of you, Millie."

"Not even you?"

"Especially not me."

Millie took another swig of her beer and looked out over the yard. "Why roses? Why not . . . daisies? Daisies are harmless."

"Daisies are glorified weeds."

"So? Who gets to say what's a weed and what's a flower?"

"It's my yard. I get to say." He sounded angry.

"Okay. Fair enough. Roses it is."

"You never answered my question. Why are you here on your day off?"

Millie looked down at the drink in her hand. The glass was sweating just like her, but the bottle was more shapely and she suspected its contents left a less bitter aftertaste. She picked at the label. "My upstairs neighbor died. Mr. Howard. He was dead for eight days before anyone in the building even realized. And then it wasn't because anyone missed him. It was the smell."

It wasn't a lie. It had happened last month and it still bothered her. "I think . . ." Millie stopped to clear her throat of a hard lump that had suddenly, unexpectedly lodged there. "I think that's real sad, Jack."

"Yeah," he softly agreed. "Yeah, it is. Real sad." They settled into an easy silence broken finally by the groan of Jack's chair as he shifted his weight. "So, are you okay?"

Millie shrugged and squinted up at him. "I'm fine. It's just that it sort of creeps me out sometimes."

"Sometimes." Looking like he seriously needed to crawl back into the bed he'd just crawled out of, Jack studied her face. "Sometimes like today?"

She smiled. "Why don't I make us some lunch. You hungry?" She stood up and started inside the house, but a hand on her wrist stopped her. Aside from their initial handshake months ago, it was the only time they'd ever touched and Millie was shocked by the coolness and the softness of his hand on her skin.

"You know, Millie, the only power that the dead hold is the power you give them."

He was right. She knew that. "Yeah. I know. So, what'll it be, Jack? Tuna? Chicken salad? I make a mean grilled cheese."

*****

A noise woke her. She was curled up in an uncomfortably small knot with something hard and unforgiving pressed up against the back of her neck, and she had absolutely no idea where she was. Groaning softly, rubbing her stiff neck, Millie sat up and looked around. The room was lit with a weird, bluish light. She followed the source to a large television displaying the multi-colored bars of a station gone off the air.

Crap. She'd fallen asleep at Jack's house. More specifically, she'd fallen asleep in the armchair in Jack's living room. Glancing across the room, she saw him stretched out on the sofa, facing away from her with his left arm slung up over the back of the couch.

After a light lunch that Jack had left mostly untouched, they'd lounged in the living room watching an ER marathon. Twenty minutes into the first episode, Jack had started with the Elizabeth Corday jokes. He'd begun by surmising that Millie was Dr. Corday in disguise and that she'd quit speaking with a British accent just to throw people off. Then with the questions: Why had she quit perming her hair? For that matter, why had she cut it? Was she falling for Dr. Benton? And why? The guy was acting like a complete jerk. Why did she look so much shorter in person? How did she keep her smocks so white? Was it a special type of bleach used only by hospitals?

It had been cute for the first two and a half hours. Then it grew tiresome. Her only respite was when Jack dozed. She'd turned down the sound on the television and had escaped into the guest bathroom. Running a sink full of warm water, she'd scrubbed away the sweat and the dirt, and had tried to convince herself that she was not an unwitting cast member of the movie Big. Jack was not, in fact, a child thrown by a freakish accident into the body of a man.

Yeah. Right.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Little Boy Man was sitting at the dining room table, talking to someone on the telephone. He nodded at her as she passed by him and went into the kitchen to grab a soda.

"No, Carter. I do not need you guys to come over. No. I'm absolutely fine. Yes. I swear. Anyway, I have company." Millie walked by again on her way out of the kitchen and Jack smiled. "Corday is here. My friend, Corday. No, you may not speak to him to make sure he's a real person. Besides, he is a she." Jack chuckled softly. "Carter, I really think we'd prefer to be alone, if you know what I mean."

Curled up in the armchair, Millie flushed and choked on her soda.

"Carter. Carter! You can quit laughing now. No. It wasn't a joke." Jack sighed deeply. "Honestly? No. I'd rather you didn't. I'm . . . I'm kind of tired. I think I'm going to go to bed early tonight. Ha. Ha. Very funny. Yeah. Okay. I'll see you tomorrow then. Yes. I'll convey the message. Goodnight."

A few minutes later, Jack joined her in the living room. "Carter says `hey.'" He picked up the remote. "You like baseball?"

Despite the fact that she really didn't, Millie nodded, suddenly wondering what the hell she was doing here. The house and belongings she knew like they were her own; their owner, on the other hand, was a virtual stranger. Jack hadn't complained about her presence, but he certainly hadn't extended an invitation. He was probably just being nice; hated to say anything to hurt her feelings. She glanced over, watching him flip through the channels. Daniel had said Jack wasn't well, but to Millie, he simply looked tired. Other than catching him repeatedly rubbing his left temple, it looked like the man just needed some serious sack time.

"You know," she stood up, "I should probably get going."

"Why?"

Millie stared at him, puzzled at the almost desperate tone in his voice. Maybe he didn't want to be alone. Or maybe he really did enjoy her company. Or maybe he just felt sorry for her and wouldn't ask her to go home to an apartment haunted by dead neighbors.

"Why go? We can watch the game together. I'll order pizza."

"It's getting late. I hate biking home in the dark."

He waved her back to her chair. "I can drive you later. Sit down. You like pizza, right?"

Feeling numb, Millie dropped back to the chair, nodding. "Yeah. I like pizza."

"Good."

And so they'd eaten pizza and watched a ball game. Or, more accurately, he'd pretended to eat pizza while she'd pretended to watch the game. It was basically a draw as to which of them was fooling the other. Personally, Millie thought they'd both failed miserably. The last thing she clearly remembered was trying to get comfortable in the armchair and murmuring agreement when Jack declared the third base umpire a complete ass. Judging by the state of her neck and the television in the corner, that had been several hours ago.

So . . . Millie Guthro had technically spent the night with Jack O'Neill. Yawning, she couldn't help but grin. She had a sudden urge to go grocery shopping and wondered what Ms. Booger Fingers Blankenship, the local bag queen, would think if she could see Millie now.

Jack groaned and mumbled something in a language Millie didn't recognize. Still sitting in the armchair, she stopped rubbing her neck and stared at him. Suddenly, he yelled, his body jerking. Shit! He was obviously deep in the throes of some nightmare. Her heart racing, Millie hurried to the couch.

"Jack." She sank down next to the sofa and laid a hand on his shoulder. He was sweating and his entire body was trembling. "Jack." He moaned and mumbled something that resembled the legal jargon that until a few months ago had been a big part of her life. She gently shook him. "Jack, wake up."

If Millie Guthro had kept a journal, the next moment would certainly have gone into it . . . in crisp, uppercase letters, underlined, and highlighted with one of those fluorescent markers - bright yellow or lime green. One moment she was kneeling beside Jack wondering if the words spewing out of his mouth were brought on by fevered delirium, and the next moment something hard slammed into her face, flinging her backwards through the air.

With a soft grunt, her spine connected with the coffee table. She felt herself go limp, and sagged forward and to the side. Slowly, with an odd sense of `I'm falling and I can't get up,' Millie slumped over onto Jack's living room floor. Her right cheek pressed against the rug, she lay there, stunned.

She really should sweep under the sofa.

Aware of movement somewhere nearby, Millie sluggishly wondered why she was paralyzed, why her arms tingled and why she couldn't seem to breathe through her nose. Just as she heard a soft, masculine curse, her nerve endings re-booted and pain kicked in. Sounding suspiciously like a cat in heat, she moaned.

Something large and warm moved close, then strong hands were lifting her up, depositing her gently onto the sofa. Her entire face pounding, she leaned back against the soft cushions and squinted up at Jack. He was dripping with sweat and was extremely pale.

"Oh God, Millie. Oh crap. I'm sorry. Just . . . wait right here."

"Whant . . . hnappened?"

But Jack had disappeared. Her head drooped towards her chest, feeling decidedly heavy and . . . wobbly. Then Jack was back. Biting his lower lip, he pressed a cool, damp towel against her face. When he pulled it back, it was covered with blood.

"I think you should lie down."

Studying the angle of his jaw and those cute little lines that ran up his cheeks like a set of parentheses bracketing his mouth, Millie let him ease her down onto the sofa. "Whant hnappened, Janck?" And why did she sound like the lead singer for the Statler Brothers?

"God, Millie, I slugged you."

"Whyn'd you hint me, Janck? Whant'd I do?" Okay, so she was still a little confused.

If possible, he paled further as he gently dabbed the towel on her face. "You didn't do anything, Brit. Not a single damned thing."

She lay there quietly while he doctored her, trying to slip the events of the past few minutes back into place. Her entire face was beginning to seriously throb, but she felt sleepy despite the pain. "Onh, I renember. You were dreamning." He'd been having a nightmare. She looked up at him. He was vacantly staring towards the center of her face and he was still sweating profusely. Without thinking, she reached and touched his wet cheek. He felt hot. "You sinck?"

"I'm fine." His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

"Janck?"

He blinked and finally focused his eyes on her. "Millie, please forgive me. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt . . .," Jack gasped softly and for a brief second Millie thought he might cry. But he didn't. Not even close. He blinked again and his face seemed to harden. "I should have told you. I didn't think. Never touch me when I'm sleeping. Never. Do you hear?"

"Whyn?"

His dark eyes glittered in the dim light of a non-receptive television and he moved the towel, touching it to her face again with a gentleness that was out of place with the tension radiating off of him. "I have a lot of nightmares about . . . stuff. Promise me, Millie. Promise me you'll never touch me when I'm asleep. Just .. . holler at me. Throw something. Anything. But don't get close to me. Okay?"

"Onkay, I promnise." Millie shut her eyes. "Janck, counld you bring the anspirin?"

He placed the towel in her hand and patted her arm. "Sure. I'll be right back."

She was almost asleep when he returned with the bottle of aspirin. With his help, she sat up on the sofa and shook three tablets onto her palm. He handed her a glass of water and she washed the painkillers down, then shook out four more and pressed them into his hand. He was still trembling. Jack frowned at the pills and then at her.

"No onffense, bunt you lonk like cranp."

Despite his paleness and the sweat glistening on his face, he smiled. "Coming from you, Brit, that is so not a compliment." He studied her face. "Trust me."

Millie forced a lopsided smile, feeling the tug of already-swelling tissues. "Anm I prenty?"

"Absolutely freakin' gorgeous." He paused. "Well, if you don't mind blood and black eyes and swelling and that," he made a face and pointed obscurely towards her nose, "that big honkin' booger hanging out of your nose."

"Whant?" Appalled, Millie reached for her face.

Chuckling, Jack grabbed her hand, stopping her. "Don't. Don't. I was only kidding. No boogers. I promise."

Millie swatted at him, then pushed the hand containing the aspirin towards his face. Frowning again, he swallowed them.

"There. I hope you're happy. Now, how about we go to bed?"

Millie groaned as, despite her mangled face, a wave of heat she'd once read about in a stupid romance novel rushed through her, settling somewhere between her groin and the pit of her stomach. Refrigerator. Refrigerator. Oh, right. Overused. As Jack slipped a hand beneath her arm, helping her to her feet, Millie scrambled for something, anything, to save him from her evil clutches. Her face pounding and her vision swimming, she leaned against him and giggled as he led her towards the guest bedroom.

"What could possibly be funny about this?"

Millie giggled again. "Nonthig."

Homer Simpson. Homer Simpson.

*****

She slept until just after 10:00 a.m. Still wearing her dirty, now slightly blood-splattered, cut-offs and tshirt, Millie studied her face in the bathroom mirror. Other than a headache and a dull throbbing across the small of her back where she'd slammed into the coffee table, she didn't feel too bad. She just looked like hell.

Actually, she looked like she'd been on the receiving end of a barroom brawl. She, Millie Guthro, the mouthiest person she knew who had never been in a real, honest-to-God fight. The very thought of her duking it out made her smile, which in turn made her groan and put a hand to her tender face. Her left eye was black and swollen nearly shut. Her nose had approximately doubled in size and her upper lip had ballooned out on one side, throwing her whole face out of kilter. The effect would have been comical if it hadn't been quite so grotesque.

She had to confess to a few `The Morning After at Jack's Place' fantasies. Funny, not a single one had ever involved her hiding in the bathroom because she didn't want to hear the man of her dreams screaming like a frightened girl. Well, nothing to do but suck it up. Walk it off. Pretend she didn't give a flying hoot.

She found him sitting at the dining room table reading the paper and nursing a cup of coffee. As she stepped into the room, he looked at her over the top of the paper, then slowly lowered it to the table.

"Holy crap." He grimaced. "I was really hoping that was just part of a very bad dream."

"Yeah, well, it was good for me, too, thanks."

"Sorry." He stood up. "Let me get you some breakfast. You want some bacon, toast?" He stopped next to her and reached out, tipping her head back with his hand, studying her face. "Damn, Brit. You look .. . bad."

"Bet you say that to all the girls you beat the crap out of." His already pale face blanched further and Millie felt a stab of remorse. "I was kidding. It wasn't your fault."

"Yeah. Right." He let go of her and made his way into the kitchen. She followed. "So . . . breakfast?"

"Jack, please. I shouldn't have said that."

"You had every right to say that." He opened the refrigerator and peered inside. "How about an omelette?"

"Seriously, I have a real problem with mouthing off before I think about what I'm saying." He glanced over at her. "But you probably hadn't noticed that about me, am I right?" She smiled crookedly, but he merely turned back to the refrigerator.

"I can make pancakes."

"I don't want breakfast. I just . . . I don't want you to feel guilty. Because it's okay. Really."

Jack straightened, still holding the refrigerator door open, then turned to look at her. "It's okay?" He sighed softly. "Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?"

"Have you?" He didn't respond. "Cause you don't look so great yourself, you know."

"Excuse me, but I'm not the victim here."

Millie snorted through her swollen sinuses. "Victim? Oh, please. Don't be so melodramatic."

"Millie, I hit you. I punched you in the face, for crying out loud."

"So? What's your point?"

"My point? My point?" He slammed the refrigerator door shut with a dull thud and a muted clash of jars banging together. "My point is, you should be pissed. You should be throwing things at me. Yelling. Quitting. Calling the cops. Something. Anything!" His voice had risen as he spoke and when he stopped, she could hear him panting softly. His chest was heaving and he was sweating again.

"Okay. So, let me get this straight. You're mad because I'm not. Is that it?"

"I'm not mad."

"Well, you sound-"

"I said, I'm not mad!"

"Fine!"

"You can't let people use you like that, Millie! You have to fight back!"

"What?" Maybe she was hurt worse than she'd thought because Millie was suddenly completely confused as to why were arguing. "What are you talking about? People using me? No one's used me. Certainly not you."

Jack winced, then leaned back against the counter and pressed a shaking hand to his head, pressing firmly. "God, Millie, I'm . . . I'm sorry. I don't know what . . . ." He shook his head.

Mimicking his earlier treatment of her, Millie went to the sink and dampened a towel. She pressed it against his forehead, then wrapped his free hand around it and stepped back, watching him closely.

"So who were we just talking about, Jack?"

He squinted over at her, questioning her with a look.

"Well, either someone was `projecting' just now, or I wasted some serious session time with Doctor Do-You-Love-Your-Mother." When he didn't respond, Millie decided to press her luck. "Who do you really want to beat the crap out of?"

At first she thought she'd misread the whole scenario. He gave her a look so completely lacking in guile and understanding that she really thought she needed to brush up on her psychology. Then, just as she started to apologize or better yet, change the subject, he swallowed loudly and the blood appeared to drain from his face. Grunting, he ran past her out of the kitchen. She stared after him a moment before stepping into the dining room mumbling, "Something I said?" As soon as she reached the table she could hear the unmistakable sounds of vomiting.

Millie stopped in the open doorway of the guest bathroom. Jack was down on his knees with both hands braced on the toilet and his back arched as he heaved violently. She cringed and her stomach lurched in sympathy as she watched and listened to the man's obvious misery. He was still clutching the towel and she pulled it from his grasp, re-wetting it with cold water. She placed the cool cloth on the back of his neck and stepped around him, sitting down on the edge of the tub. It wasn't long before he flushed the toilet and sank down on the floor near her feet, leaning back against the tub and scrubbing the wet towel across his face.

"So . . .," she swallowed, grateful that her swollen nose impeded her sense of smell, "you okay?"

He glanced up at her over the towel, then mumbled into it, "I'm fine."

Millie grunted softly. "Yeah. You look great." She had the distinct feeling that if Jack hopped in with one leg dangling by a puny thread of skin, he'd swear he was just fine, thank you very much for asking even though it's none of your business. One dark brown eye glared up at her past the towel. "Almost as good as me," she grinned.

Jack groaned. "Are you always such a smart-ass?"

"Mostly."

He tossed the towel into the sink and leaned his head back against the tub, shutting his eyes. Millie studied the dark circles under the deep-set eyes and the tense lines etched into the handsome face. She didn't know him well, but he looked more than just sick. If she were guessing, she'd say she was looking at a man who was completely drained. Without thinking, she dug in the pocket of her cut-offs and pulled out a small wad of paper. Curling her fist around it, she stared down at her bare feet.

"Why do you make notes?"

He frowned slightly, his eyes still closed. "What do you mean?"

"Most people jot down telephone numbers, email addresses, things they need from the store. You write down quotes. I find them all over the house."

Jack shrugged non-committally.

"'Much learning does not teach understanding.'" She'd memorized it. He raised his head and looked at her, and Millie handed him the crumpled paper. "I found it yesterday when you were asleep."

Jack stared down at the limp, wrinkled paper. The ink had smeared and was nearly illegible. "It's a habit. My mother used to do the same thing. Dad bitched and moaned that he couldn't open a cabinet or a drawer or a book without little slips of paper fluttering out all over the place."

"What did she write? Quotes, like you?"

He seemed to think about it. "I'm not sure. I honestly can't remember. But I know why she did it. She said her brain was cluttered with trivial things. Mom was one of the smartest people I've ever known. Hell, she could read a damn bank statement and recite it back to you from memory. But she was absolutely terrified of forgetting something important."

"Is that why you do it? So you won't forget."

Jack gently pressed the wrinkles from the softened paper. "Maybe. Yeah, I guess so." He balanced the paper on his bent knee, then scrubbed his hands over his face, pressing hard on his temples. "I have all this stuff in my head: dates, battles, faces, mission reports." He laughed softly, sadly. "Memories. Lots of memories. Sometimes it just gets to be too much. Lately, it . . ." His voice trailed off and he sighed deeply.

"'Much learning does not teach understanding,'" she repeated, mulling over the words.

Jack's voice was quiet. "It's from The Universe by Heraclitus. It just . . . it seemed important. Fitting. I thought it might put things into perspective."

They were quiet for several minutes and despite the fact that they were sitting in Jack's bathroom, it was a comfortable silence. Finally, Millie smiled to herself at an unbidden memory.

"My mom collected butter bowls."

He looked at her. "A lot of people do that."

"No. No, Jack. She didn't collect them to re-use them. She collected them. She put the pretty ones on display in the china cabinet. She left them to my Aunt Irene in her will."

"How very . . .," but he obviously couldn't think of a kind description, so he smiled instead.

Millie laughed. "Maybe I really am British."

They were both still chuckling when the doorbell rang.

"Oh crap," Jack moaned.

"What?"

"My team. I forgot. They're supposed to come over today."

"You want me to get it?"

Jack glanced at her face. "Although scaring them off is tempting, I'd better let them in."

When he opened the door, it was to three of the most diverse individuals Millie could have imagined. Daniel, of course, she already knew. Jack introduced her to a tall, slim, blonde woman named Carter or, as the woman insisted, Sam. Millie was surprised. She'd heard Jack talk about a Sam Carter and had always assumed it was a guy. But Carter was definitely female, complete with legs that went all the way up - the kind of legs Millie had always dreamed about having.

Then there was the biggest, most stately man Millie had ever met. His name was Murray, a name which seemed entirely ill-suited to him, as did the Colorado Rockies baseball cap which was pulled down over his massive head. When introduced to her, he had nodded regally and announced in the most precise English Millie had ever heard that it was his pleasure. She had a fleeting urge to dust off the British accent and to toss in a curtsy. Instead, she smiled crookedly.

"My God, Millie, are you all right? What happened?" Daniel's mouth had dropped open when he first saw her and now he was squinting, eyeing the damage to her face.

Jack cleared his throat as the five of them moved into the living room.

Carter laughed softly. "What'd you do, sir, give her a boxing lesson?"

"Um," Jack sat on the sofa, blushing slightly.

"Let me tell them." Even though she knew Carter had spoken in jest, Millie had a sudden need to rise to the man's defense.

"What?" Jack looked embarrassed and once again guilt-ridden. "Listen, you don't have to . . ."

"It's my story. I should get to tell it." Millie sank down onto the sofa, close to Murray. "I came over late yesterday because there was a . . . problem with my apartment and Jack graciously offered me the use of his spare room."

"I did?" He met her gaze. "Yes. I did."

"Well, anyway, when I got here, there was a woman here. What was her name, Jack? Corduroy? Cordon Bleu? Something."

"Corday," he mumbled.

"Yeah, that's it. Corday. Real pretty in a flashy sort of way. Although, I'm not exactly sure what you saw in her, Jack. She just didn't strike me as your type. Anyhoo . . . we all three started playing cards. Poker. She did good for a couple of hands. Really raked it in, hey, Jack?"

He coughed and nodded.

"But then she started losing. And, well, let's just say that when the chips were down, she started showing her true colors. Got real pissy. Started mouthing off . . . mostly to Jack. Said he was cheating; that he was an idiot and a selfish jerk; she didn't know what she'd ever seen in him. That kind of stuff. Then she called him squirrelly."

"She called you squirrelly, sir?" Carter had a huge smile plastered over her face.

"Apparently," Jack grimaced.

Daniel chuckled and Murray simply cocked an eyebrow.

"Yeah. That's when I lost it. I'm not exactly sure what came over me. I told her to shut up and to get the hell out."

"Wow." Daniel seemed impressed. "Then what happened?"

"To be perfectly honest, the rest is kind of a blur. Jack'll have to fill you in on the details."

Everyone looked towards the still pale, but now smiling man. He shrugged and glanced over at Millie. "What can I say? She kicked Corday's butt. Whipped her ass. I've never seen anything like it before in my life. A hundred-pound terror in tennis shoes. Let me clue you in, guys, you do not want to mess with this one."

"Geesh." Daniel frowned and studied Millie closely.

"Holy Hannah," Sam whispered.

Murray tilted his head. "You are a formidable warrior, MillieGuthro."

Millie blushed. "Well, you know, it was nothing really." She glanced over at Jack. "Right?"

Jack smiled. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, Brit. I'd say what happened here was pretty spectacular." 

**The End**

  


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> Author's Note: Thanks to Jude, my buddy and my beta. A special thanks to each of you who wrote requesting more of Millie B the woman who is any one of us.   
> This story is for you.

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> © February 2005 Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate   
> (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko   
> Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and no money   
> exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters,   
> situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be   
> posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

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